


Cry Me a River

by paintpaw



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Followers of the Apocalypse (Fallout), Found Family, Gen, Great Khans - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25147135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintpaw/pseuds/paintpaw
Summary: “He's obviously a bright, sensitive soul, and he loves literature.”“Excellent! Ezekiel's been after me to find him a new assistant for ages. Tell the boy we'll take him.”Jerry gets a new dad
Relationships: Ezekiel & Jerry the Punk
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	Cry Me a River

**Author's Note:**

> Though I may love the Great Khans, I do get Jerry. 
> 
> Thank you so much @seren0n for helping me with ideas and answering my questions about Ezekiel and being lovely generally 😭

“He's obviously a bright, sensitive soul, and he loves literature.”

“Excellent! Ezekiel's been after me to find him a new assistant for ages. Tell the boy we'll take him.”

Leaving Red Rock Canyon wasn’t as liberating as Jerry planned it. He _had_ thought about doing something dramatic--bursting into the longhouse to announce his departure, leaving Papa with a list of his criticisms like he was reviewing a hotel on the Strip, then flaunting out the door to leave Papa and his advisory circle in stunned silence. 

To his credit, he did hover around the communal area close to the Longhouse for a while--but he never quite plucked up the courage. It didn’t help that Regis was outside, leaning against one of the stone walls of the Longhouse and had asked what he was doing. Twice. That did pretty well to scare him off.

In the end, Jerry just slipped away when no one was paying him any attention. Something that he didn’t have to wait long for. 

Passing through Fiend territory was easy enough to get used to. Jerry’s been to Freeside plenty of times, but the long walk towards Westside gave him plenty of time to think when he wasn’t ducking out of view of other raiders.

Jerry may have been the youngest survivor of Bitter Springs, but he was old enough to care for himself. For a good while, he’d been swaddled--back when they were all sleeping in and around the Longhouse and not letting each other out of sight. Over time they’d spread out, a trail of white tents down the cliffs. And also over time, the support for Jerry’s initiation had dwindled.

At one point, even some first-generation Great Khans were offering their help. But Sasha had left years ago, Uma wanted to finish training with Regis, and McMurphy was exhausted from just trying to keep everyone’s hopes up.

Regis was the last ritemaster. 

Four had died in the war with the Vegas Families, some of their best fighters. Two more fell at Bitter Springs. Regis was it. And he had almost no time to spare in training Jerry, what with basically holding the camp together.

Not that Jerry _wanted_ to be trained by Regis. Which only made things worse.

Even though he and Papa had chosen more advisers, Diane, Jack and Melissa were nothing compared to what they used to have. Not many Khans think that Jerry can remember the old advisers--but it doesn’t take a genius to work out that Regis is still holding down more jobs then he should be.

He’s at the end of his tether. Tired and frustrated. It feels like he only shows up to whale on Jerry, haul him to his feet, then roll his eyes and walk away when Jerry starts to call him names. 

Jerry’s even overheard him asking Papa if they can just _give_ him a pass into the Khans. That Bitter Springs and five failures could be enough.

That definitely wounded Jerry’s ego. It doesn’t even occur to him that Regis might just be trying to give him a break.

Either way, Jerry decides it doesn’t matter. He decides not to stop in Westside so he can get to Freeside before sunset. The militia guarding Westside watch him as he passes, pausing their conversations to eye him. 

He catches the eye of an elderly woman, one with frazzled white hair and a strong grip on her gun. She tips her cowboy hat to Jerry and he quickly averts his eyes. A deep part of him misses seeing women like that. Old and haggard but fit and strong. Things were better when they were around.

It’s certain to him that he won’t be missed. Maybe after a few days, someone will ask if anyone’s seen him. Perhaps Regis will notice he hasn’t been asked about the next initiation. Or maybe he’s stretched so thin that he’ll enjoy the peace. Jerry isn’t sure.

The constant swaddling had fallen to the new youngest Khan. Gecko’s baby--one too young for even a milk name--will surely keep everyone busy. 

Jerry misses the babies too. 

Even if another, childish part of himself grew envious of Baby, who giggles and gurgles in the strong and safe arms of Papa Khan.

Jerry remembers that too. Fighting with other kids over the chance to sit on Papa’s knee while he held court. It seemed a strange thing to fight over these days. Jerry wished he’d spent less time fighting with his siblings and more time just being with them. 

But it’s hard to deny the security that brings to a scrawny five-year-old. Being able to sit and pick at Papa’s plate and fall asleep to the deep rumbling of his voice while he talks to his advisers about things that just don’t matter to a child. 

Papa still has that sort of _magic_ about him. It’s hard to confront him. He speaks so certainly, with such genuine soul, that it’s impossible to question him.

When Gecko had asked Jerry if he wanted to hold Baby, he’d declined and he couldn’t explain why. Maybe he just didn’t want to screw that up too. Somehow further ruin the Khan’s future. 

Sometimes he felt that he’d already done that by hiding at Bitter Springs, instead of doing what he was told and running into Red Pass with his siblings.

Jerry traces the wall that surrounds Freeside with his hand as he walks. When he flicks a broken bulb, it pings a hollow sound. At least it means he’s close. 

Rounding an old-world building with a sunken roof, Jerry finally approaches the northern Freeside gates. A trio of Kings squabble over something in the shade of an old bus stop. Jerry glances at their faces to see if they’re anyone he recognises from the time he got thrown out of the Atomic Wrangler.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem that way. Though it is hard to tell when they all dress the same. One of them catches his eye and throws his head up in Jerry’s direction.

“Hey hey little man, you wanna cruise Freeside in style, you oughta hire a King!” 

“No, thanks,” Jerry says quickly as he passes by. The Kings call something else but he can’t hear them over the screech of the gate as he pushes it open. 

In hindsight, Freeside is probably worse than Red Rock. Jerry doesn’t really realise that until the prospect that won’t be able to return home hits him.

There’s the familiar smell of alcohol and people, coupled with unfamiliar trash and old--dust and asbestos-filled--buildings. He’s instantly longing for the communal fire outside the Longhouse, and the smell of roast brahmin. Far away, a gunshot echoes down the street, coupled with a scream. Everyone around ignores it.

Jerry hurries past the plethora of individuals that try to greet him as he goes by. Bodyguards advertising themselves, the other type of escort advertising themselves, beggars and street performers, a hungry stray dog and a meat salesman. He just stares at the ground as he goes by and only glances up to make sure he’s heading towards the right place.

Old Mormon Fort is older than anyone can imagine these days. The old world sign outside is reminiscent of the one outside Red Rock, proudly carved into stone--claims of a historic site made by people who had no idea what was to come. Jerry scowls at it as he hefts the heavy wooden door and slips inside.

The smell caught inside the fort is perhaps worse than outside. Like someone vomited in the drug lab back home and left it.

A pair of guards glance over from their game of caravan and size Jerry up. Initially, he puffs out his chest on instinct but quickly shrinks back down. One guard, a ghoul, mutters something to her companion and they both laugh. Jerry starts to wring his hands as he trots over, and they both look up at him expectantly.

“Um… I was told that the Followers were willing to take me on as a… um.. A member.”

The ghoul offers Jerry a lopsided grin, “What’s your name kid?”

“Jerry.”

Leaning so back in her chair that she’s only on two of its legs, the ghoul glances over the people milling around the fort. She barely searches for a moment before lazily pointing at a tall woman with spiky hair.

“Talk to Julie.”

An odd woman.

That was Jerry’s thought after speaking to her for only a few minutes. Julie Farkas is an odd woman.

At first, Jerry was expecting the same brash personality that came from any other Khan with such a spiky mohawk. But her voice was soft and kind, and her eyes held a tired sort of reverence. Jerry would be ashamed to admit that he flinched when she reached out and set a gentle hand on his shoulder, and she’d smiled at him so sadly he’d felt like he was about to cry. 

She’d admitted early on that she almost didn’t believe that he was a Khan, and when Jerry had gotten defensive about his size and strength, she assured him that it was his tender heart that had stood out to her for good reasons.

“Maybe you can read me some of your poetry... if I get a moment to sit down later on.”

Jerry bit the inside of his lip, still mulling over how being sensitive was a good thing to her, but nods.

Julie continues, “I know the perfect mentor for you, he’s an anthropologist from the Boneyard, a professor. And I thought his assignments might suit you too, people from the city can’t walk the Mojave like tribals can.”

Part of Jerry wants to bring up that just because he can walk for miles and miles doesn’t mean he wants to. In fact, he’s pretty sure he was carried most of the way on the Khans last two forced migrations. 

He was definitely a baby when they left Vegas. 

“I’m afraid his attendance is a little sporadic. I did put a message out to our outposts that I’ve found him an assistant,” She sighs to herself, but offers Jerry a reassuring smile, “If he hears that, he’ll be back soon. It’s just a matter of if he decides to visit an outpost.”

Jerry vaguely remembers Regis commenting on how surprisingly disorganised the Followers of the Apocalypse were. 

“What will I be doing with him?”

“He can tell you better than I can. He’s one of our more--” For the first time Jerry notices Julie frown, but only for a split second, “-- _independent_ members. Half of what he does is for his own research, but a lot of that research helps us teach and travel.”

Before Jerry can ask any more questions, Julie gets whisked away by some urgent shouts from another tent. He marvels at how calm and steady her voice remains as she tells him he’s more than welcome to browse her personal collection of magazines--all while packing up a doctor's bag and hurrying out the tent flaps.

He hears her voice shift to something more commanding the moment she’s out of his sight. 

Jerry shifts uneasily, now that she’s gone. He eyes the chemistry set laid out on the table beside him. Julie told him not to mind the lanky blond man who was tinkering with it. Dr Gannon, or something. He’d glanced over and smiled politely at Jerry when Julie ushered him inside and had him sit down.

“You’ll like Professor Ezekiel, he’s not as boring as the rest of us,” Dr Gannon says as he heats a test tube of something green and mushy over a blue flame. He frowns, “Fair warning though, he’ll talk your ear off if you let him.”

That’s two people who’ve frowned while talking about this guy. Jerry fights the urge to start chewing his nails by squeezing his hands together in his lap. 

A lot of what’s on Dr Gannon’s table matches what Jack has in the drug lab. It’s only just occurred to Jerry that Jack and Diane probably got theirs from here. Or at least, from the Followers. Hard to imagine, with how cracked and blackened with overuse Jack’s tools are.

‘ _Well-loved_ ’ he’d called it. Or some such shit.

Jerry thought he hated Jack. 

Hated the way he talked and his made-up words. Hated how patronising it felt when he told Jerry all he needed was some love and care. Hated how he rubbed circles on Jerry’s back when he cried while venting his frustrations, and hummed songs his mother used to sing for him. 

If Papa Khan was the last real raider of the Great Khans, Jack was the last real noncombatant.

Dr Gannon didn’t try to keep the conversation going and Jerry appreciates it. He’s not sure how much time passes while he just watches Gannon work. At one point he remembers the magazines, but Julie didn’t say which crate they were in, so he doesn’t bother.

By the time Julie does come back, Gannon is gone and his experiments are long cold. There’s a new glint in her eyes when she smiles at him.

“Jerry, this is Ezekiel.”

As Jerry jumps to his feet, Julie holds the tent flap open to let Ezekiel inside--and Jerry quickly finds he has to look up then up again to meet Ezekiel’s eyes. 

He’s almost nothing like the other Followers, from the decent bulk of muscle on his form to his patchwork--subtly armoured jacket and the hunting rifle slung over his shoulders, both of which contrast against the million cap grin on his face as he looked down at Jerry.

The hint of recognition stirs in the back of his mind. He’s seen this man before.

“Ezekiel, this is Jerry.”

Ezekiel thrust a hand between them, “Professor Ezekiel--aha but you already know that! A pleasure!”

That perky voice was the last clue Jerry needed. He does know this man. The long-legged, endlessly excited man who was in charge of the Follower’s interaction with the Khans. The one who organised reading and writing classes; shipments of books and equipment and--perhaps most importantly--the one in charge of organising the relief effort after Bitter Springs. 

For the months the Khans and the Followers held an alliance, Ezekiel had lived in their camp. Sat in the guest’s seat, on Papa Khan’s left, in the Longhouse. Wandered around camp, listened to their music, talked to every group that would have him. 

He’d even sat with Jerry when he’d tucked himself far away to read his books, and asked him what his favourite part was. 

Jerry blinks and realises he hasn’t taken Ezekiel’s hand yet--and Julie is looking at him worriedly. He clears his throat and takes Ezekiels’ hand, who gives him a single firm shake.

“Um… Hey, what’s up?” Is all he can really think to say.

“What’s _up_ is that I practically ran back here when I heard that Julie may have found a suitable research assistant to help me! It’s not many who like to read these days,” Ezekiel titters, “I certainly hope you don’t mind walking! And lots of reading and writing!”

If it had been literally any other Khan, that would have been the worst offer imaginable. Thankfully, Jerry thinks different. But still, his shoulders raise and he bites the inside of his lip with nerves. He glances between Julie and Ezekiel like he’s expecting it to be a joke.

Though when the two Followers go to glance at one another from Jerry’s lack of response, he finds his voice.

“I would--I mean I don’t mind walking. And reading. And writing--reading and writing. I _like_ both of those, I mean. And the walkings… _fine_.”

That’s a satisfactory answer according to Ezekiel, “Excellent, excellent! Then you and I will get along wonderfully!” 

Jerry notices Ezekiel giving a tight-lipped smile to Julie as he thanks her. She doesn’t reply as she turns and walks away, save for one last smile at Jerry. It felt like he was telling her to leave.

There’s a beat of quiet, and Jerry peers up at Ezekiel again, only to find him squinting back down. Studying--probably judging him. Jerry’s hackles raise, puffing himself out on instinct. 

“What? Got a problem, tough guy?” 

The defensive display seems to sail over Ezekiel’s head. He hums and taps his lips with two fingers, “I know your face. Where have I seen you before?”

“Oh. Um..” Jerry bravo dissolves like water in the desert. It was only a matter of time until he was recognised. He folds in on himself just slightly, wrapping his arms around his chest.

“You were in charge of the uh--the thing? With the Great Khans? With all the books and stuff, right?” He glances up for guidance, and it makes him feel a bit funny to have Ezekiel’s undivided attention, “Well--I was there. You might not recognise me, I was a little kid back then and you were so busy. I remember you spoke to me once though… Asked me how I liked reading.”

Jerry definitely jumps at the loud gasp that escapes the taller man. Almost immediately Ezekiel is back to firing a grin as bright as the Mojave sun at him at full force. 

“You know! I do recognise you! Yes yes, that’s it! You’re a _Khan_!” Ezekiel claps his hands together, and Jerry winces, “My goodness, you’ve grown quite a bit haven’t you? You’re a big, strong young man now! Strong arms for carrying books I hope! Have you dyed your hair?”

That was--unexpected. Jerry reaches up to tug his fringe over his face the moment it’s mentioned, but he finds himself smiling.

“Uh--Yeah I did actually.”

“It suits you!”

“You really think so?” The words spill out of him before Jerry can think how it makes him look, but the enthusiastic nod from Ezekiel instantly reassures him, “Thanks! I do it all by myself.”

“It looks good! What do you use?”

“Oh.. um.” Jerry fights to keep himself from folding his arms again, but ends up just wrapping his hair around his fingers, “It’s uh--It’s that gunk stuff the other Khans use to uh--keep their jackets black.”

That smile finally falters, “You mean leather polish?”

“Uhh… _maybe_?”

There’s no escaping the crease in Ezekiel’s brow. Though whether it’s disappointment or concern, Jerry can’t tell. He doesn’t care either, to him its disapproval, and that’s all that matters. There’s the creeping feeling that he’s just blown it. He doesn’t know what ‘ _it_ ’ is exactly, but he’s convinced that Ezekiel now hates him.

No point in hiding any more disappointment then.

“Um. And I’m not a _real_ Khan either.” 

Ezekiel’s concerned frowning turns into a confused head tilt, “Oh?”

“Yeah... I never passed my initiation.”

“ _Oh_.” That’s a different ‘oh’ to the one Ezekiel made before, and Jerry hugs himself a bit tighter, “That’s a shame. Was there a problem with the ritemasters?”

It was easy to forget that Ezekiel had spent a good portion of time living among the Khans with the sole intent on learning as much as he could. From the few glimpses of memories Jerry had of Ezekiel from before, he definitely always had a notebook to hand. Of course he’d know about the initiation already.

“Oh, no. _Well_. There’s only Regis left but--he’s _whatever_.”

“Oh yes, I remember Regis.” Ezekiel whistles to himself, and Jerry squints at him, “He seems a little _much_ for you, I can see why that would be a problem.”

“ _Hey_!” Jerry’s shout startles both Ezekiel and one of the gamblers passing by the tent, “What are you saying about me!” 

Ezekiel stares for a beat, blinking and working his mouth but not saying anything. Finally, he finds his voice again, “I’m not saying anything about you! I mean to say that that seems unfair on you! Of course--I know that your initiation ‘ _beat down_ ’ is supposed to represent all the times the Khans have been knocked down but always manage to pick themselves back up again, but it’s not meant to be _impossible_!” 

That-- _again_ \--was not what he was expecting.

Jerry has no illusions about the reputation of the Khans--both from themselves and from people outside. He may have only been 17, but he’s still been spat at, thrown out of pro-NCR bars, accused of stealing--all because of the Khans. Even in their most favourable reputations, they’re known for being rowdy and dauntless, fiercely independent and stubbornly unwilling to ask for help from outsiders, either from trust or pride.

But Ezekiel’s words silence him. He feels like he’s staring up at the man, stupid and numb. 

To hear an understanding side that he’s been feeling but was unable to put into words. Jerry doesn’t know what to do with himself.

The taller man gives him a sympathetic look, mistaking his stunned silence for distress, “I’m sorry Jerry. I get told that I’m not very good at-- _well_ \-- _not accidentally insulting people_. It’s a real wonder how I haven’t been ripped to shreds by some raider warlord or another! But I am sorry if it came out like that.” He pats his shoulder, “Let me know if I do it again.”

Jerry stares at that hand on his shoulder with stars in his eyes. All of this--niceness--it feels so alien to him. The Khans would never think to treat a near-stranger like this. It’s not unpleasant. Just.. strange.

Ezekiel’s hand slips away and he steers the conversation elsewhere.

“So tell me! What area of study takes your interest, hm? I hope you’re still reading!”

Jerry stares blankly for a few moments, chewing his lip, “Well, it’s not study but--I like writing poetry.”

Ezekiel brings his hands together in a singular clap, his grin somehow wider, “Oh how wonderful! You know, in the old world they used to say: ‘ _The pen is mightier than the sword_ ’! I wouldn’t say that was the case these days but my goodness I wish it were!”

That courier was right, these people were like him.

Ezekiel takes the chair Dr Gannon had been sitting in and nods to Jerry, “Do you bring any with you? I’d love to hear some!” 

“You would? Really? Okay… One sec.”

While Jerry hurriedly starts to unbutton the pocket he’s sewn onto his overalls especially to keep his journal safe, Ezekiel leans forward on his elbows. Jerry flicks through his leatherbound book, trying to find the best one. Not the one that was a work in progress, not the limerick no-one had ever laughed at. His eyes fell upon one he was particularly proud of.

“Okay, here goes,” Jerry glances up at Ezekiel who’s listening intently, “This is a poem I wrote about the dark loneliness that suffuses my soul.”

Jerry misses the very concerned look that suddenly appears on Ezekiel’s face the moment he says that, casting his eyes back down to his journal, he clears his throat and begins to recite.

_“Rain Clouds wrap my heart in sorrow black as silk,_

_“My empty scream does not echo, even though we're in a canyon._

_“My soul aches, but not as much as my limbs, because I've been beaten severely._ ”

Short but sweet, that’s what he calls it. His poems always sound better when they’re short. Jerry licks his lips and glances up at Ezekiel, almost not wanting to. It was already a good sign that he wasn’t laughing.

Ezekiel’s in the same pose as before, legs crossed and an elbow on his knee. Jerry can’t see his mouth with his fingers splayed over it, looks like he’s waiting to make sure Jerry’s done.

“That’s it. What do you think?”

All of a sudden, Ezekiel animates back to life, leaning back to give a polite little clap with his fingers against his palm. Jerry feels his face flush.

“Wonderful! Very emotional! I can understand where you’re coming from--and not just because I study the Khans! I’m not so good at poems but I hope you keep writing!” 

“You liked it? Wow, you're the first one who ever did!”

Ezekiel gives him a strange look, pursing his lips and squeezing his hands together. He glances out of the tent’s doorway, then back to Jerry, leaning forward.

“You know, creative writing is a very important building block in the creation of culture. Both in tribes of the old world and in the new. The written word really is powerful. I believe that it’s important that artists like yourself are not silenced,” Ezekiel’s voice takes on an even, serious tone, “I think you could learn a lot on travels with me. Would you like that?”

Jerry feels his shoulders tense, and his mouth runs dry enough to make him regret not asking Julie for water earlier. Ezekiel’s words were very strange, out of nowhere almost, but deeply resonated with a part of Jerry he didn’t even realise was there.

The offer was exciting, but also completely terrifying.

Back when the Followers broke the alliance with the Khans, Ezekiel had still been in their camp. He was furious. The poor messenger--probably an intern or assistant--was already so scared of being attacked by the Khans. No-one had really expected Ezekiel to be just as angry.

Jerry couldn’t remember exactly what was said. He wasn’t in the Longhouse at the time. But there were a lot of rumours around the camp that day.

_‘I heard the professor say his leader has been tricked by NCR propaganda. Do you really think it’s true?’_

_‘Someone said all the Followers here might lose their jobs for helping us--all because we started selling drugs. What a joke.’_

_‘I’ve never seen Zeke so angry. When Papa told him we were all used to it, he just got upset.’_

It was no wonder Ezekiel functioned on the outskirts, but you did have to wonder how the Followers fell from the likes of him--caring for and coming to the aid of a bunch of depressed raiders--to whatever this was. Didn’t the Followers and NCR break apart before Bitter Springs?

Jerry swallows thickly. If he throws his lot in with Ezekiel, and not just the Followers, and Ezekiel gets kicked out, it’d just be the two of them alone in the wasteland, right? They’d both have nobody. The Khans wouldn’t take him back.

Would they take Ezekiel?

The other man notices his silence and raises a hand, “You don’t have to decide right now. I understand if you’d rather--head to the Boneyard maybe and research poetry, I’m sure they’ve got some fascinating stuff that would take your interest. You could probably get a degree if you really wanted!”

That was somehow more terrifying--the idea of getting shipped so far away from home. The Mojave was all he’d ever known. The Boneyard was...where exactly? Jerry wasn’t even sure.

At least here he could _try_ and win back the favour of Papa Khan.

“I wanna stay,” Jerry surprises himself with his words, “I know the Mojave and...I wanna learn about--uh--what you said. With the--artists.”

Ezekiel’s grin returns, not as gleeful as before, but still strong and assuring. He reaches out to give Jerry a squeeze on the shoulder--and a little shake.

“That is the best news I’ve heard all day-- _well_ , other than hearing someone might be willing to be my assistant, of course.” He stands, jumping to full height, “Now, I haven’t eaten since I woke up this morning, so why don’t we discuss my next and your _first_ assignment over some late afternoon lunch? The mess tent should be empty by now.”

Jerry trails after Ezekiel as he leads him around to the next tent over--the mess tent, as it were. A few cobbled together tables and chairs, crates of donated produce and tins and a fridge with a sign indicating it was more for keeping things out of the sun then it was keeping things cold.

It’s a disappointing selection, but Jerry had filled himself up with steak before setting out.

He sets himself down with a few pieces of fruit while Ezekiel fills up his canteen with water and washes his hands. 

“You know, I miss the Khan’s cooking,” Ezekiel says as he gathers himself a plate of food, “I’m almost never offered a hearty meal every day for free.” 

“Yeah..” Jerry returns quietly. 

Ezekiel explains his line of work to Jerry, how he records the history of the new world and researches the old. And how he helps the Followers in making first contact with tribes new and old, keeps track of their activity and what could be learnt from them as well as what the Followers could teach.

It’s a wonder to Jerry how Ezekiel is just fine with walking up to raider gangs with very little regard for his own safety--but Ezekiel calls it a passion. 

The only break in conversation is when Ezekiel excuses himself to mutter quietly over his food in a language Jerry doesn’t understand.

“What was that?”

“Oh, a blessing.”

“Blessing?”

“Oh yes, I’m Jewish.” When Jerry looks just as confused, Ezekiel continues, “I’ll be talking all day if I get into that, it’s a religion. just think of me for now as--from another tribe. But one older and bigger than even you Khans.”

They slip back into talking about the coming expedition. Ezekiel complains about the way the Legion, NCR and New Canaanites treat tribal people, and how they’ll have to head north eventually when the big two clash again and one actually wins out. He tells Jerry that his thoughts are with the Khans when it comes to that--and Jerry doesn’t say anything.

Jerry finds that he’s getting used to periodic commotions outside the tent, and very rarely does Ezekiel feel the need to stand up and peer out over the compound to make sure the other Followers have a handle on things. The people they’re helping out here seem to fight over completely different things to what the Khans do. You’d never catch a Khan fighting over something as petty as sleeping arrangements. Tourists. 

But one shouting match makes Jerry flinch like the first time he’d heard one. Not because it’d taken him off guard--but because he recognised a very familiar accent.

“I know he came through here so don't lie to me. One of them Kings told me so. Just tell me what y’did with him, okay?”

Jerry jumps out of his seat before Ezekiel can and hoovers at the tent flaps. 

If the accent wasn’t unmistakable, the outfit was.

Melissa Lewis stands with her shoulders squared, flanked on either side by two of her runners. The three of them are staring down the ghoul guard Jerry had spoken to earlier, who’s standing now, a hand on her weapon. 

“And I told you, _sweetie_ , if I saw a fella in your folk’s leathers, I’d have noticed.”

“Yeah well he’s not _in_ our leathers, is he? He’s just a _kid_ for--”

“Melissa!”

Why was she here? Why was she here and looking for _him_? _Was_ she looking for him?

Melissa whirls around to face him. Her face shifts from anger, to relief, which does well to answer his question.

“Jerry!” Melissa leaves the guard, who’s already sat back down--used to conflicts like these probably, “What are you doing out here? You scared everyone half to death.”

“What am I doing out here?” Jerry calls back as Melissa closes the distance between them, “What are you doing out here? Why did you follow me?”

“Gecko saw you leave by yourself,” Melissa sounds like she’s trying hard not to raise her voice, “You know we don’t travel through Fiend territory by ourselves it’s dangerous. Like seriously, _actually_ dangerous Jerry.”

Jerry, on the other hand, doesn’t bother, “I’m not a kid Melissa, I can handle it!”

Melissa recoils backwards with an incredulous look on her face, then speaks with renewed vigour, “Jerry, I said _none of us_ travel through Fiend territory alone. When our first scouts made contact with them, they made Papa and Diane _swear_ never to send one of ours alone into Vault 3. This is _serious_.” 

She raises her arms and gestures wildly back in the direction of home, “If your trail went cold around Westside--I woulda had Gecko and anyone with a set of binoculars picking over the ruins for your body. Or worse, you in a fucking bomb collar. You think any of us want that?”

“What do _you_ care?!” Jerry shouts back, he can feel his throat tighten and his eyes prickle, “None of you ever give a shit about me and then when I do it’s when I’m running away.”

“Running away?”

“Um. Hi hello excuse me,” Ezekiel chooses now to stand up and approach the Khans. He pointedly makes a thumbs up ‘ _don’t worry about it_ ’ gesture in the direction of Julie Farkas before returning his attention to Melissa, “Professor Ezekiel, you might remember me from the work I did with your tribe. Melissa, I presume?”

Melissa regards him for a moment before glancing back down at Jerry, “What didja go running to him for?”

“I didn’t.” Jerry grouses, then scrubs at his eyes, “That--courier said they’d take me in. 

“Take you--Jerry what are you talking about?” Her sharp eyes fall upon Ezekiel again, “You stealing him away?”

“Unfortunately I’m not too aware of the situation here,” Ezekiel looks down at Jerry, but Jerry can’t force himself to meet his eye, “I was only called her when I was told he was willing to be my research assistant.”

Melissa abruptly shoves past Jerry to put herself between him and Ezekiel, “He’s not some servant, I’ll have you know.”

“I promise you that’s not what ‘ _assistant_ ’ entails.”

Jerry stumbles but keeps his balance, then grabs Melissa’s arm and tries to pull her away, “Melissa leave him alone, it was my idea.”

“Yeah!” Melissa looks over her shoulder at Jerry, “‘N where’d you get that idea from?”

“If I may--” Ezekiel interjects, “--He has every right to make his own choices.” 

Melissa faces him for the last time and jabs a finger at him, “Stay out of this.”

Ezekiel raises his hands placatingly as Melissa comes back around to Jerry.

This is all his fault.

He hugs himself tightly as Melissa regards him, the gears visibly turning in her head. But he can’t face her, turning his head downwards to face the dirt. It feels like everyone in the camp is staring at him.

They’re all quiet for a good while.

“I don’t understand,” Melissa says finally, “Why would you wanna leave?”

Jerry’s shoulders shudder, he can feel hot tears welling up in his eyes again, “You all hate me.”

“We don’t _hate_ you, Jerry.”

“ _Yes,_ you _do_.” He turns his face up to look at Melissa, too frustrated to care if she sees him crying, “You all do, you think I’m a waste of space. Regis hates me because I can’t pass the initiation, Papa hates me because I won’t write ballads, Gecko hates me because I didn’t hold Baby, you hate me because I tried to run away.” 

His voice breaks at the end and he takes a shaking breath, reaching up again to scrub his eyes but keeps his hands there.

“I’m better off doing everyone a favour and just going away forever.”

Melissa goes quiet again. 

Jerry knows she can’t understand. She _wanted_ to be part of the Khans. Born out in NCR but hated them so much that she’d come back to her mother's roots. 

She told horror stories of the world inside the NCR. The nine to five, the monotony, the police, the taxes. She knew it all well, what with staying so close to her own father.

But what was most important was how hard she’d worked to be a Khan. Not just any Khan either--lead scout, one of Papa’s advisers. 

Just another thing NCR likes to pretend doesn’t exist, Melissa herself.

She sighs, “Oh Jerry...” 

Jerry peels his hands away from his face to peer up at Melissa. Her mouth forms a thin line as she tilts her head slightly to one side. 

“I didn’t know that you were--that is was--” She tuts to herself for not being able to get the words out, shaking her head, “I wish I’d known.”

“You could of asked.”

Melissa lets out a humourless laugh, “I should have done.”

Another quiet falls between them. A long, pregnant pause. Jerry tries so hard to will himself to stop crying his fingers slip into his mouth and he starts chewing his nails.

“You really don’t wanna come back?” Melissa asks finally.

Jerry shakes his head.

“Positive?”

Jerry nods.

Melissa sighs.

She turns back to face Ezekiel, who’s been hovering nearby wringing his hands the entire time, “And you’re gonna take care of him?” 

“Oh of course! You know me! Well--at least I hope you remember me. From before? Our alliance and--”

“I do.” She cuts him off before he can start rambling.

A second sigh escapes her and she slowly turns back to face Jerry, who decides he’d rather be looking at the corner of the tent than Melissa’s face.

“Well in that case...”

“Be good, kid,” Melissa says, reaching out to thumb Jerry’s cheek, then wrap an arm around his shoulders, “I’m gonna miss you and your- _-weird poetry_.”

Jerry sniffles, then tentatively wraps his arm around her shoulders in kind, “Thanks, Mel.”

She’s quiet for a moment, Jerry can see through his hair that Ezekiel is hoovering nearby smiling.

“You know if you’d of hung around and actually said goodbye to Papa, he would have left you with--y'know--Wisdom.”

Jerry huffs a breath, not sure what to make of that. He and Papa weren’t very alike, in Jerry’s mind. Papa was known for his empathy among the Khans and Khans alone, but Jerry’s fairly certain he doesn’t get like this.

“Can I get your wisdom instead?”

Melissa pauses, then pulls away. An apology starts to fall out of Jerry’s mouth but she shushes him, puts her hands on his shoulders and holds him firmly at arm’s width--making sure he’s meeting her eyes.

“Always carry a blade,”

“Know your exits,” 

“And don’t leave a trail.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do have a follow up/epilogue planned but the chance of me ever getting it done is pretty slim, so, for now, we'll say this is it. But you never know 👀


End file.
